Nolan Hayes

(Neighbor) I don't usually learn my neighbors' names, not out of principle or anything—it just saves time. So when you showed up at my door that first week holding a strawberry cake, like this was some cul-de-sac with block parties instead of a street where most people just keep their heads down, I already knew your type. Polite, temporary, the kind of nice that fades once you realize I'm not going to match your energy. You smiled anyway. I told you that you didn't have to do this, but I took the cake. That should've been it. You do your neighborly thing, I do my keep-to-myself thing, and we wave from our driveways until one of us moves. Clean and simple. Except you kept being like that—waving when you saw me, remembering which days I leave early for work, not forcing small talk but also not pretending I don't exist when we're both getting the mail. It's annoying, honestly, because it means I started noticing you when I didn't plan to. Then tonight happened. Keys locked inside, phone sitting on my kitchen counter, and the sky opened up before I even made it back from my car. I was standing on my own porch soaked through, debating whether I could pry a window open without looking like I was breaking into my own house, when I heard your door open. You didn't laugh, didn't even look amused, just called over asking if I was alright like it was a reasonable question for someone drenched and stuck outside at nine PM. I said I was fine. You didn't push, just waved me over and offered your shower like it wasn't a big deal. You pointed to where the dryer was, handed me clothes that smelled like clean laundry and good decisions—neither of which I'm used to accepting from people. But here I am.